Their house was one of the oldest in Landerneau and was covered with strange carvings. The great knocker always fascinated me, for it represented a devil with his pitchfork, and one lifted the pitchfork to knock. Almost always it was one of the Demoiselles de Coatnamprun who answered, and she always held a clean white handkerchief by the center, the points shaken out, and always swept us, as she appeared before us in the doorway, a wonderful, old-fashioned, stately court curtsey. The sisters were plain, with dark, mild eyes, faded skins, and pale, withered lips; but their teeth were beautiful, and they had abundant hair. Ismenie's features were harsh, and her half-closed, near-sighted eyes gave her a cold and haughty expression; but in reality she was a lamb of gentleness, and no one seeing the sisters in their poverty would have taken them for anything but _grandes dames_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Gentle, austere figures, dressed always in threadbare black"]

When we were ushered into the house it was usually into the dining-room that we went. The drawing-room, which was called the _salle de compagnie_, was used only on ceremonious occasions, Easter, the bishop's visit, or when the _n.o.blesse_ from the surrounding country called, and the proudest among them were proud to do so. So in the _salle de compagnie_, where engravings of the family coats of arms hung along the walls, the ugly, ma.s.sive mahogany furniture was usually shrouded in cotton covers, and it was in the dining-room that the sisters sat, making clothes for the poor. Here the pictures interested me very much; they were _naif_, brightly colored prints bought at the Landerneau fairs, and representing events in the lives of the saints.

St. Christopher, bending with his staff in the turbulent stream, bore on his shoulder a child so tiny that I could never imagine why its weight should incommode him, and another doll-like child stood on the volume held by St. Anthony of Padua. The oil-cloth cover on the table had all the kings and queens of France marching in procession round its border, the dates of their reigns printed above their heads.

The chairs were common straw-bottomed kitchen chairs. _Maman_ sometimes tried to persuade the sisters to paint the chairs, saying that if they were painted bright red, for instance, it would make the room so much more cheerful. But to any such suggestion they would reply, with an air of gentle surprise: "Oh, but _maman_ had them like that. We can't change anything that _maman_ had." Their large bedroom was on the first floor, looking out at the street. It was a most dismal room. The two four-posted beds, side by side, had canopies and curtains of old tapestry, but this was all covered with black cambric muslin and had the most funereal air imaginable. At the head of Ismenie's bed, crossed against the black, were two bones that she had brought from the family vault on some occasion when the coffins had been moved or opened. The only cheerful thing I remember was a childish little _etagere_ fastened in a corner and filled with the waxen figures of the _pet.i.t Jesus_, and the tiny china dogs, cats and birds that had been among their presents on Christmas mornings. To give an idea of the extreme simplicity and innocence of the Demoiselles de Coatnamprun I may say here that to the end of their lives they firmly believed that _le pet.i.t Jesus_ himself came down their kitchen chimney on Christmas eve and left their presents for them on the kitchen table. _Le pet.i.t Jesus_, as a matter of fact, was on these occasions impersonated by _maman_ and Tante Rose. Tante Rose always had the key of the sisters' house, so that at any time she could go in and see that nothing was amiss with _ses enfants_, as she tenderly called them,--and indeed to the end they remained lovely and ingenuous children,--so she and _maman_, when the sisters were safely asleep, would steal into the house and pile every sort of good thing, from legs of mutton to _galettes_, upon the table, and fill the garden sabots that stood ready with bonbons, handkerchiefs, and the little china figures of animals the sisters so cherished. And always there was a waxen figure of _le pet.i.t Jesus_ and the card with which he made his intention clear; for "_Aux Demoiselles de Coatnamprun, du pet.i.t Jesus_" was written upon it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Old Kerandraon]

Other instances of the sisters' ignorance of life and the world I might give, but they would simply be received with incredulity. Such types no longer exist, and even then the sisters were unique. I do not believe that in all their lives they knew an evil thought; they were incapable of any form of envy or malice or uncharitableness, and filled with delight at any good fortune that came to others and with grat.i.tude for their own lot in life. Sometimes Suzette, in the intimacy of friends, would refer with simple sadness to the one drama, if such it can be called, that had befallen them. "_Oui_," she would say, "_Ismenie a eu un chagrin d'amour_." Once, when they were young, in their parents' lifetime, an officer had been quartered with them, a kindly, intelligent, honest young fellow of the _bourgeoisie_, and at once aware of the atmosphere of distinction that surrounded him. He showed every attention to the sisters, and poor Ismenie found him altogether charming. He never even guessed at her attachment. Indeed, no such a marriage at that time would have been possible, but she was broken-hearted when he went away. Her sister was her confidante, and this was the _chagrin d'amour_ to which Suzette sometimes referred.

I have said that when they walked out they wore _capotes_. On one occasion Mlle. Suzette found in a drawer, among old rubbish put away, a crumpled artificial rose, a pink rose, and had the strange idea of fastening it in front of her _capote_. Ismenie, when her near-sighted eyes caught sight of it, stopped short in the street and peered at her sister in astonishment. "But, Suzette, what have you there?" she asked. Suzette bashfully told her that she had found the rose and thought it might look pretty. "No, no," said Ismenie, turning with her sister back to the house, "you must not wear it. _Maman_ never wore anything in her _capote_." It required all my mother's skill to persuade them to allow her to dress their hair for them on the occasion of an evening party at Tante Rose's, to which, as usual, they were going, as "_maman_" had gone, wearing black-lace caps.

"_Voyons_, but you have such pretty hair," said _maman_. "Let me only show you how charmingly it can be done." They were tempted, yet uncertain and very anxious, and then _maman_ had the opportune memory of an old picture of the marquise in youth, her hair done in puffs upon her forehead. She brought it out triumphantly, and the sisters yielded. They could consent to have their hair done as "_maman's_" had been done in her youth.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "They were buried together on the same day"]

We children always went with our parents to the evening parties in Landerneau. _Maman_ did not like to leave us, and it will be remembered that in those days one dined at five o'clock and that we children had all our meals except breakfast with our parents. It was at a dinner-party at Tante Rose's that Mlle. Suzette, next whom I sat, said to me smiling, with her shy dignity, "I have a present here for a little girl who has been good," and she drew a small paper parcel from the silk reticule that hung beside the rosary at her side. I opened it, and found, to my delight, a sugar mouse and a tiny pipe made of red sugar such as I knew _maman_ would never allow us to eat when we went to the confectioner's. But here, in the presence of Mlle.

Suzette, and the gift a gift from her, I felt that I was safe, and I devoured mouse and pipe at once, quite aware of _maman's_ amused and rallying glance from across the table. "I saw you," she said to me afterward. "Little ne'er-do-well, you know that I could not forbid it when Mademoiselle Suzette was there!"

The only flower that grew in the Demoiselles de Coatnamprun's garden was heliotrope, for that had been "_maman's_" favorite flower. They were poor gardeners, and the little _bonne_ who came in by the day to do the housework could give them no help in the garden. So it was Tante Rose, trotting on her high heels, a little garden fork on her shoulder, who appeared to do battle with the moss and dandelions and to restore a little order. She always gave to this service the air of a delightful game, and indeed, in her constant care of the poor old ladies, had the prettiest skill imaginable in making her gifts weigh nothing.

"My dears," she would say, leaning forward to look at their black robes, "aren't these dresses getting rather shabby? Hasn't the time come for new ones?"

"They are shabby," Ismenie would answer sadly, "but _que voulez-vous, chere Madame_, our means, as you know, are so narrow. It costs so much to buy a dress. We could hardly afford new ones now."

"But, on the contrary, it doesn't cost so much," Tante Rose would say.

"I know some excellent woolen material, the very thing for your dresses, and only five francs for the length. You can well afford that, can't you? So I'll buy it for you and bring it to-morrow."

And so she would, the innocent sisters imagining five francs the price of material for which Tante Rose paid at least thirty. Since the sisters were very proud, for all their gentleness, and could consent to accept nothing in the nature of a charity, and since indeed they could hardly have lived at all on what they had, Tante Rose had woven a far-reaching conspiracy about them. Her tradespeople had orders to sell their meat and vegetables to the Demoiselles de Coatnamprun at about a fifth of their value. Packets of coffee and sugar arrived at their door, and milk and cream every morning, and when they asked the messenger what the price might be, he would say: "_Ces dames regleront le compte avec Monsieur le Cure_," and since they did not like to refuse gifts from the cure, the innocent plot was never discovered. Of course fruits from Tante Rose's garden and cakes from her kitchen were things that could be accepted. She would bring them herself, and have a slice of _galette_ or a fig from the big basketful with them. They were rather greedy, poor darlings, and since any money they could save went to the poor, they could never buy such dainties for themselves.

One extravagance, however, they had: when they came out to pay a visit, a piece of knitting was always drawn from the reticule, and when one asked what it was one was told in a whisper: "Silk stockings--a Christmas present for Suzette," or Ismenie, as the case might be. Beautifully knitted, fine, openwork stockings they were.

Another contrivance for their comfort was invented by Tante Rose. They were great cowards, afraid of the dark and in deadly fear of the possible robbers that might enter their house at night. Tante Rose arranged that when they went to bed a lighted, shaded lamp should be placed in their window, the shade turned toward their room, the light toward the street, so that any robbers pa.s.sing by would be deceived into thinking the house still on foot and forego their schemes for breaking in.

Their hearts were tender toward all forms of life. I can see one of them rising from her work to rescue a fly that had fallen into trouble and, holding it delicately by the wings, lift the _persiennes_ to let it fly away. One day in their garden I cried out in disgust at the sight of a great earthworm writhing across a border.

"Oh, the horrid worm! Quick! A trowel, Mademoiselle, to cut it in two."

But Mademoiselle Suzette came to look with grieved eyes.

"And why kill the poor creature, Sophie? It does us no harm," she said, and helped the worm to disappear in the soft earth.

The Demoiselles de Coatnamprun died one winter of some pulmonary affection and within a day of one another. They died with the simplicity and sincerity that had marked all their lives, and toward the end they were heard to murmur continually, while they smiled as if in sleep, "_Maman--Papa_."

Ismenie died first; but since it was seen that Suzette had only a few hours to live, the body was kept lying on the bed near hers, and she did not know that her beloved sister had been taken from her. They were buried together on the same day.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "In the days of the Terror ... it had been used ... as a prison"]

There was another and very different old lady in Landerneau of whom I was very fond and whom, since she took a great fancy to me, I saw often. Her daughter was a friend of _maman's_ and made a _mesalliance_ that caused the doors of Landerneau to close upon her. _Maman_, however, remained devoted to her, and continued to see as much of her as ever, and her mother, my old friend, was entirely indifferent to the doors, closed or open, of Landerneau. She wore a brightly colored Turkish silk handkerchief tied turban-wise about her head, and soft gray-leather riding boots,--men's boots,--so that she was known in her quarter as _Chat-botte_. In her own house she wore men's dress-breeches, short jacket, and high boots. Her feet were remarkably small, and the wave of hair on her forehead was as black as jet. She was very downright and ready of speech, and used to talk to me as though I were a person of her own age. "Do you see, Sophie," she would say, "my poor daughter is a great goose. She struggles to be received, and gets only buffets for her pains. Why give oneself so much trouble for nothing?"

The disconsolate daughter and the son-in-law made their home with her in a great old house standing on the banks of the river. He was a wholesale wine merchant, and barrels and casks of wine stood about the entrance. My old friend lived almost entirely in her own room on the first floor, the strangest room. It was at once spotlessly clean and completely untidy. The bed had no posts or canopy and was shaped like a cradle. Bottles of salad-oil stood on the mantel-shelf, and a bunch of carrots might be lying on the table among bundles of newspapers.

From the windows one had beautiful views up and down the river and could see the stone bridge that had old houses built upon it. Across the river were her gardens, and she used often to row me over to them and to show me the immense old cherry-tree, planted by her grandfather, that grew far down the river against the walls of an old tower. This tower had its story, and I could not sleep at night for thinking of it. In her girlhood mad people were shut up there. There was only a dungeon-room, and the water often rose in it so that the forsaken creatures stood up to their knees in water. Food was thrown to them through the iron bars of the windows, but it was quite insufficient, and she gave me terrible descriptions of the faces she used to see looking out, ravenous and imploring. She remembered that the bones protruded from the knuckles of one old man as he clutched the bars. She used to pile loaves of bread in her little boat, row across to the tower, and fix the loaves on the end of an oar so that she could pa.s.s them up to the window, and she would then see the mad people s.n.a.t.c.hing the bread apart and devouring it. And when the cherries on the great tree were ripe she used to climb up into the branches and bend them against the window so that they might gather the fruit themselves from among the leaves, and she herself would gather all she could reach and throw them in. They had not even straw to sleep on. When one of them died, the body was taken out, and this was all the care they had. Such were the horrors in a town where people across the river quietly ate and slept, and the church-bells rang all day.

CHAPTER VII

BON PAPA

My most vivid recollections of Grandfather de Rosval place him at Landerneau, where he would stop with us on his way to Quimper during his tours of inspection. His arrivals in the sleepy little town were great affairs and caused immense excitement: post-chaise, postilion, whips cracking, horns blowing, and a retinue of Parisian servants. We children never had more than a glimpse of him at first, for he withdrew at once to his own rooms to rest and go through his papers.

When he made his entry into the salon,--the salon of the slippery parquet and the nodding mandarins,--all the household was ranged on each side, as if for the arrival of a sovereign, and we had all to drop deep curtseys before him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Grandfather de Rosval]

He was a rather imposing figure, with splendid clothes, the coat thickly embroidered along the edge with golden oak-leaves, and a fine, handsome head; but he was enormously, even ridiculously, stout.

With an often terrifying and even repellent severity he mingled the most engaging playfulness, and our childish feelings toward him were strangely compounded of dislike and admiration.

When he arrived in the salon a lackey came behind him, carrying a large linen bag filled with a sweetmeat bought at Seugnot's, the great Parisian confectioner. I always a.s.sociate these sweetmeats with _bon papa_. They were called _croquignoles_, were small, hard, yet of the consistency of soft chalk when one bit into them, and glazed with pink, white, or yellow. After the salutations, _bon papa_ would take up his position before the mantelpiece and beckon the servant to give him the bag of _croquignoles_. We children, quivering with excitement, each of us already provided with a small basket, stood ready, and as _bon papa_, with a n.o.ble gesture, scattered the handfuls of _croquignoles_ far and wide, we flung ourselves upon them, scrambling, falling, and filling our baskets, with much laughter and many recriminations. Then, besides the little case for _maman_, also from Seugnot's, filled with tablets of a delicious _sucre-de-pomme_ in every flavor, were more dignified presents, bracelets and rings for her and for our _Tante de Laisieu_ and boxes of beautiful toys for us.

The only cloud cast over these occasions was that after having distributed all his bounties, _bon papa_ sat down, drew a roll of ma.n.u.script from his pocket, and composed himself to read in a sonorous voice poems of his own composition. Their theme, invariably, was the delight of reentering one's family and country, and they were very pompous and very long, sometimes moving _bon papa_ almost to tears.

The comic scene of family prayers that followed was pure relief, for even we children felt it comic to see _bon papa_ praying.

"And are they good children?" he would ask. "Have they said their prayers?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The chateau was one of the oldest in Finisterre"]

"Not yet, _mon pere_," _maman_ would answer. "They always say their prayers at bedtime." But _bon papa_ was not to be so deterred from yet another ceremony.

"Good, good!" he would reply. "We will all say the evening prayers together, then."

And when we had all obediently knelt down around the room, _bon papa_ recited the prayers in the same complacent, sonorous voice, making magnificent signs of the cross the while. On one of these occasions we were almost convulsed by poor little Ernest, whom _bon papa_ had taken in his arms, and who was so much alarmed by the great gestures going on over his head that he broke at last into a prolonged wail and had to be carried hastily away.

One of _bon papa's_ poetic works I can still remember, of a very different and more endearing character. I was taken ill one morning while we were living with him in Paris and had been given to console me by a cousin of ours staying with us, the d.u.c.h.esse de M----, a delicious little purse in white, knitted silk, embroidered with pale blue forget-me-nots. I told _maman_ that I wished very much to show this purse to _bon papa_, and that he should be informed of my illness. So I wrote him a note, and it was taken, with the purse, to his room. Presently the little parcel, much heavier, was brought back to me, and on opening my purse, I found inside it a centime, a liard, a sou--every coin, in fact, up to and including a golden twenty-franc piece. And this is the poem that was sent with the purse:

"Vous voulez jeune Princesse Que je me rends pres de vous?

Que je baise de votre altesse Les pieds, les mains, et les genoux?

Dans un instant je vais me rendre A vos desirs et a vos voeux, Mais vous me permettrez de prendre Deux baisers sur vos beaux yeux bleus."

Such a grandfather, it must be admitted, had advantages as well as charms, yet our memory of him was always clouded by the one or two acts of cruel severity we had witnessed and of which I could not trust myself to speak.

CHAPTER VIII

LE MARQUIS DE PLOEUC